It feels wonderful
To do nothing
On a day
When there’s nothing to do
Among days and days
Of there being
Nothing to do
Oh how wonderful
Then to think of love
In such a way
That only one who has known
The love of being in love can
That one might even write
Of that warm flotation tank
Where one bathed
Deeply aware of a lover’s love
Each time we meet
You bring something else
To beat me with
I can’t take much more
I do have to tell you
The shadow of the airflow
Across the chimney wall
As its origin rises over the radiator
Up into the window space
Could this be my nemesis
Or would that be somewhat darker
And do I even know what Jung means
When he asks me to find this
I really do not have a choice
The need is way too too deep within
Yet it continuously stirs to ask
Where am I then now
I have an inkling
That it would be good
To strip myself right back to the core
But how would I do such a thing
Would I have to give up
Family, friends, acquaintances
And what about the writing
Does that too have to be cast off
Along with the music and the movies
No more to hear Otis sing
Or to talk of past regrets
Also to forget about meditation
What goodness will this bring
To the new king without clothes
Neither a suitcase to pack them in
Take stock, of the wedding ring
You never had old lad
But don’t be sad, no not sad
Nod your head to cherishing
That would be a neat way
To conclude your drift
Two lads call in
Workmen perhaps
For a pint
A game of pool
Then outside
For a cigarette
Before racking up
Once more
I try
To think about romance
But nothing is forthcoming
Even though I’ve been in love
Many times over
Although
Then again
I never was a hustler
